


Shared Hell

by LightofEvolution



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, F/M, Post-War, darkish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-07 04:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13426395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightofEvolution/pseuds/LightofEvolution
Summary: Hermione finds in herself in a situation she has never anticipated. Thrown into a cell in Azkaban, she's close to giving up. But then, she learns there's someone in the cell next to hers. Dramione, EWE, prompt and fanart by MrBenzedrine89.





	1. Be careful making wishes in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> Hello readers! I'm back with a new story. Maybe you know that I try to branch out from my silly/fluffy/funny stuff from time to time. This story has been waiting on my computer for MONTHS, adding bits ans pieces every few days, so it's completely planned out. Three of the six chapters are already written, and all of them are relatively short. Still, I've invested a lot of thought and heart into this, especially since it has grown from a prompt my brilliant beta and all-time-supporter MrBenzedrine89 gave me. She and Kyonomiko (check out their stories if you haven't already! They're both incredibly talented!) have encouraged me that this is worth writing and uploading -I am SO grateful that I have them!
> 
> Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its places, characters and story belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm not making money with this creative twist. The title of this chapter is borrowed from Fall Out Boy.
> 
> Warnings: While this story isn't overly dark compared to others, it contains torture (psychological and physical), and characters in difficult and hopeless situations. If this bothers you, you shouldn't read this.

* * *

 

Hermione wakes when a voice reaches her ears, and, at first, she thinks the rat she shares her living quarters with is talking -  it wouldn’t be the first time. Something moving in the corner of her personal hell supports her theory.

 

She’s been in this place...at least six weeks she calculates, having lived through the cycle of two days of darkness, followed by two days of blinding light, followed by three days of a regular circadian rhythm the appropriate number of times.

 

The witch only surmises she is counting days; it’s hard to tell when she had been robbed of her watch. Though, it could be longer, because she had a concussion after one ‘interrogation’ when she banged her head against the wall behind her, after receiving a slap, which caused her to hallucinate. 

 

Thus, the thoughts about the rat. It had been a pleasant enough conversation. Steve had told her about his family. She had told him about hers. They shared a bit of stale bread. 

 

It had been one of the entirely dark days, like it is now, when her environment was close to medieval. A dirty mattress, no window, no daylight. No toilet. Somehow, the latter circumstance degrades her humanity the worst, not the lack of proper food and clean water.

 

On the bright days, her environment is white tiled ceiling and walls, with a futon in the corner. She usually gets a tedious headache in these days because the ever present light won’t allow her to fall asleep.

 

On the ‘regular’ days, her cell has a real bed with a wool blanket. A cubicle in the corner with a sink and a toilet. A desk she has no use of. A window, charmed to show her a nondescript, lush landscape.

 

Hermione knows they want to mellow her, to break her and make her submit to the their regime after they’ve stripped her from everything she had and everything she was.

 

But Prisoner 24 is set on not being broken. She is aware of her situation: hopeless. She has no one outside of this hole to get her out of it. Or no one who would get wind of her imprisonment fast enough and with the realistic possibility to get her out of it. Ron and Harry are...

 

Her train of thought escapes her, as it so often does these days, when she focuses her eyes  in the dim light of the cell and realizes the movement in the corner is caused by her own shadow. She chuckles drily at the absurdity of it all. 

 

Hermione Granger, deemed the Brightest Witch of Her Age, jumping because her own shadow had moved. How the mighty have fallen. Yes, there had been a time where she had believed herself pretty invincible in her arrogant idealism. And look where it has gotten her. 

 

Azkaban.

 

Suddenly, she hears a noise. Only a soft shuffle against the stony silence. Vague. Undetermined? No, she tries concentrating on it; the noise has a pattern - it is a voice.

 

Silence.

 

Just when she is about to give up, to attribute it to another round of hallucinations, she hears the voice again. Someone is indeed talking...through the wall? She presses her ear to itl. When she feels the rough stones against the cold skin of her cheek, she discovers that there’s a rush of air coming from somewhere. Instantly, Hermione sends her fingers and face into a desperate search of the source. 

 

As she’s exploring the wall, her right hand meets a loose brick. Should she really be so lucky? Or is it another prank her mind plays her before she descends to insanity? Either way, she hears sounds from the other side - the next cell, presumably. Hopefully. 

 

The woman flattens her ear against the gap. Then, her heart almost stops.

 

“Hello? Someone there?” Even though the voice is dimmed by the wall, the recognition sets in immediately, activating memories and triggering synapses not used for a long time, triggered by the unique voice. 

 

No. 

 

Impossible. 

 

Just. No. 

 

Surely another hallucination. Still, “Malfoy?” she asks, her voice raspy from a mixture of crying and not using.

 

“Granger? Salazar, help me!” 

 

Is she allowed to feel something akin happiness? No matter, she does.

 

“Draco Malfoy, is it really you?”


	2. I've got the scars from tomorrow and I wish you could see

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, MrBenzedrine89 deserves one GIANT shout-out because she not only proofreads my works (and believe me, I'm making soooo many mistakes in this one specifically), but she also made truly magnificent fanart fitting for each new chapter. Another shout-out goes to Kyonomiko and the Cabin Crew for endlessly encouraging me (the latter ones without knowing the rest of the story lol).

* * *

“The one and only,” he says with a croaky voice that is only a shadow of their school days. “Do you come here often?” Hermione can’t decide whether his giddiness is funny or a sign for hysteria.

 

“I take everything back. You must be a hallucination. The Draco Malfoy I knew never had an ounce of humour in his pale body.” Suddenly, she grows eerily suspicious after the words leave her mouth. Too often, her mind has played her. Steve, at least, has been real. Harry, screaming at her for betraying him was not. Nor was Molly Weasley asking when she’d come around for dinner because everyone was waiting for her. 

 

It is one of her theories that the regime is trying to make her cooperate by slipping some hallucinogens into her food or water.  _ Good luck, you bastards _ . She won’t be outdone by some low-level potioneers.

 

Blinking, she returns to the problem at hand. “How do I know you’re real?”

 

His tone is bitter when he concludes,“Your brain must be even more fucked up than I thought if it’s hallucinating me of all people you know.”

 

The raw emotion in his voice makes Hermione reason aloud, “My brain is as I am: highly intelligent. So, I wouldn’t wonder if it made up an adversary for me in means of not giving up. Draco Malfoy is an intelligent man and certainly was an adversary of mine at school. Thus, he would be a prime choice for my brain to construct as an hallucination. Or, if you are real, you could be a spy - albeit not a very good choice.”

 

Draco is silent for a minute. Then, “I wish I could do anything to counter this logic of yours, but I’m afraid I can’t.” She snorts, but it turns into coughs.

 

Minutes - supposedly - trickle by without a word being spoken.

 

“Why are you here, Granger?”

 

Hermione, slowly beginning to accept the illusion or Draco being there for the benefit of having some entertainment at all, chuckles drily, “You know why. It isn’t exactly a secret.”

 

“Humour me,” he demands, but there’s an almost anxious hue to it.

 

“Why should I?”

 

“Because you’re not the only one who has to have their mind tested if we ever get out of here.”

 

That sounds perfectly reasonable. “I was arrested for disturbing the public peace and incitement of the masses.”

 

“Protest against the Procreation and Marriage Law?” he concluded.

 

“Yup.” Of course, he is correct; the name of the outrageous pact alone makes her hackles rise. 

 

“You don’t know what’s good for you, Granger. You should have left England like the rest of your merry bunch.”  Harry and the Weasleys had turned their backs to Great Britain more than a year ago when things began to become uncomfortable. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but only Hermione and some selected others know they settled down somewhere in Ireland. For safety reasons, no one knows of their exact position, not even roughly. 

 

Now gallows humour seeps into the witch. “Oh, I know what’s good for me. I just decided to ignore it.”

 

“In their place, I’d slip something into your tea and take you with me, willing or not.” 

 

“Yes, you are that kind of person who would that.” Strangely, her words aren’t a lie at all.  

 

“if you remember fifth year correctly, I’ve been on the receiving side of a joke like that courtesy of your friends.”

 

She sees directly through his plan to assure either one of them that they were real. “Malfoy, you know that in case of a hallucination our minds would come up with a non-recorded information like the one you just presented me?”

 

He sighs, impatiently. Now that is something as Malfoy-ish as it gets. “On the other hand, I can’t possibly begin to understand why you are here. Shouldn’t you be planning a wedding?” After all, it had been all over the papers:  _ ‘Malfoy scion about to be married to Greengrass heiress! Perfect match according to the matching committee. _ ’ 

 

“I refused to marry Astoria.”

 

That really surprises Hermione. Even though Draco has stayed away from the public eye since the war, his family hasn’t. Quite the opposite, really: Lucius Malfoy’s is one of the names in the game for the next election of the Minister of Magic. And his son is, of course, to be expected to follow the choice of a wife the commission has made for him. Though, it still reeks of bribery that he has been paired with a pretty, pureblood witch from a Ministry compliant family. “Why?” Hermione wants to know, genuinely curious.

 

“Because she was in love with someone else.” Probably-Draco sounds perfectly calm, as if there is only this possible answer to her question.

 

“Who?” Internally, Hermione chides herself. Even if this conversation is only in her head, she can do better than simple interrogative question particles. Though, she hasn’t been able to have a thorough conversation with anyone in the past weeks.

 

“Pansy. I’ve known it for years. But Astoria’s mother was not amused to have her family humiliated in that fashion, being let down by a Malfoy and all. And so some friendly officials knocked at my door. My father couldn’t do anything lest he ruined his reputation.” He stops, hurt evident in his words. And Hermione understands. “In the end, the court saw me as blood traitor, and I was convicted for high treason because I defied the natural order. I can come back when I see reason, though.”

 

Another question tumbles from her mouth, “When did Draco Malfoy become so selfless?”

 

“I have nothing to lose anymore here,” he explains, “but Astoria had so much to win, once she and Pansy have escaped. She slapped me when I told her what I had done - reminded me a lot of you, I have to admit. But  _ she _ hugged me afterwards.” 

 

Hermione’s laugh is honest and liberating. “I’d really hug you or any other remotely friendly person now, but I’m afraid I’m as muddy as your nickname for me.” 

 

“Don’t do that.” He’s deadly serious now, intense as she has never heard him before. She starts to believe he _ is  _ real. “That bullshit is how it started in the first place. Blood supremacy. Tradition over tolerance. Pride and purity over politeness. Hate over humility. I’ve seen your blood - it does the same as mine, carrying oxygen and magic.” She shivers at the honesty in his words. Better late than never, right? Or was it only what her fragmented brain wanted to hear?

 

“You know that your behaviour is merely a late rebellion against your father, don’t you?” 

 

His laugh betrays the severity of their situation. “Trust Hermione Granger to psychoanalyze a fellow prisoner. And yes, I’m very aware of that. But, honest to the Founders, why didn’t you go with Wonder Boy and his hoard of gingers, procreating with one of them?” 

 

“You’re willing to go to prison for Astoria, but you want  _ me _ pregnant and barefoot in the Weasleys’ kitchen? No, that’s not me. For Harry and the others, the war was over when Voldemort died and his regime stumbled. They are content to have fulfilled their role, fought their fights. But mine isn’t over. I’ve fought for humanity and equality in the wizarding world for too long as to give up now.” She pauses, mulling over in her head. She wonders if she could trust him to spread out her thoughts in front of him. “There’s more scheming behind this than only this blasted marriage law. It’s the mechanics of deeming some people worthier than others, excluding those they don’t need, which makes the new order so dangerous. Do you know they’ve stopped the inheritance of Galleons for Squibs? Do you know they’re planning to test children before they are admitted to Hogwarts to see if they’re magical adept or not? Minerva threw a fit over it, got sacked, and then she was banned to the Outer Hebrides.” She hears Draco gasp - and she starts to believe he is real. Or rather, makes herself hope he is.

 

“You didn’t know that? Well, it’s not exactly in the papers these days, because they heavily censor every printed word, all in the sense of public peace.” This ban of Minerva has been the ultimate point of no return for Hermione. 

 

“How do you know it, then? Have you kept in contact with the old spinster?” His words are harsh but, having worked as an apprentice for her old Transfiguration Professor, she knows he donates huge sums for the library and school supplies every year. 

 

She tells him about her position, and all he has to say is, “ _ Teaching _ , Granger? Don’t you think it’s a bit cliché that the bookworm returns to her safe haven of knowledge?” 

 

Hermione rolls her eyes, not caring if he can’t see it. Rolling her eyes at Draco is normalcy. Normalcy is a treasure. “Yes, because Hogwarts was  _ such  _ a safe place for us during our schooling. I decided to teach because where better to start to educate the young generation, to prevent from a new war happening, if not at school?” 

 

“You make it sound as if your tactics are no different from theirs. Influencing the young ones... ”

 

“Fuck you.” She chuckles because it’s so damn ironic - and he’s partly right. 

 

So they keep talking.

 

Essentially, both of them are political prisoners. The new regime is trying to bend them to the political ways of power, planning to use them as powerful puppets once the’ve “see reason” (as they like to say during interrogations). It’s ironic because who would have expected her to sit side by side in Azkaban with Draco fucking Malfoy while the world in which they’ve been on different poles of the spectrum crumbled around them.

 

Their world has been turned upside down and inside out, not even stopping at the wizarding prison. There aren’t Dementors in the prison anymore, but that doesn’t mean they treat them fair - quite the opposite, actually. With Dementors, you knew what to expect. Hermione had learned that as early as third year, but these wardens have wands. And the new regime prohibited the use of  _ Crucio _ for them - in the sake of the public peace, of course.

 

So they sit here, conversing.The both of them are exposed to various brainwashing techniques: environmental control, disgrace of identity and given a new one, rewards for wished behaviour - all to make them pliant, to break and bend them.

 

“I got to shave when I said that the Dark Lord had used intelligent techniques in controlling his followers,” Draco admits about an hour later, ashamed and voice barely above a whisper. 

 

But Hermione isn’t swayed in her decision that she made in the past hour - the person on the other side of the stone wall is real and indeed Draco Malfoy. So, she throws him a bone. “I got a brush when I admitted to having had serious relationships with two purebloods, but they took it away when I stated that werewolves are as human as I am.”

 

Instead of questioning which two purebloods she meant, he goes for an all-time favourite joke. “You hair must look even more a mess than usual, Granger.” The world would keep turning if the ferret makes remarks about her head, right?


	3. This ain't a scene, it's a god damn arms race

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like it - and if so (or even if you don't) it would be great if you left a review.   
> This chapter is dedicated to my friend and beta, MrBenzedrine89. United we stand, divided we fall. And whoever has a problem with that should leave now.

They begin talking continuously, always putting the bricks back as soon as they hear someone coming. It’s mostly things of no importance - favourite dishes, worst Christmas present, even Quidditch teams. The former Death Eater and the Gryffindor bookworm bonding -  it would be ironic, weren’t it so tragic. At night, they crawl back to their sleeping places, feeling lost and alone again.

 

Astonishingly, the hole in the wall remains, even when the scenery changes to a bright setting. Returning to her studious personality for a moment as she lectures Draco about it, Hermione surmises that it has something to do with the fact that they are in a magical prison - they simply don’t take raw, physical action into account. He calls her swot then; she hasn’t felt so much like herself in weeks. Especially when she mentions one more proof: Steve. He, after all, has also been able to breach the boundaries, and she is  _ almost  _ certain that he is an ordinary rat.

 

But the next morning, she is brought to another interrogation, and when they shove her back into her cell, the little amount of levity she has felt is crushed under the shoes of the regime. Sobbing, she sinks down next to the loose brick without even making the conscious decision to do so. 

 

“Granger?” comes a concerned voice from the other side of the wall. “What happened?”

 

She shakes her head, not ready to answer.

 

“ _ Granger _ , please. Tell me. We’re in this together.”

 

She doesn’t want to explain, doesn’t want to expose herself, doesn’t want to uncover her failure. Tears and snot running over her face, she is ashamed, devastated, about to dissolve at the seams.

 

They have exchanged their experiences with the interrogations over the last days, so Hermione knows they treat them very similarly. There are always two officials interrogating, intimidating, incriminating. But their tactics differ - sometimes they fire their questions straight on, merely giving her time to shrug when she signals she won’t answer. Sometimes she encounters someone quite adept at subtle ways of torture - in a way that makes her fingernails splice (literally) when she isn’t willing to cooperate. 

 

The company in her misery brings her enough solace to calm herself, at least in a manner that allows her to speak coherently, and so she reports to Draco what has happened.

 

* * *

 

 

_ This time, it is a friendly looking blonde witch and a stocky wizard with cruel brown eyes who ‘welcome’ her.  _

 

_ “Prisoner 24, take a seat.” The witch swishes her wand, and the hard looking chair moves without a sound. Knowing she has no choice, Hermione sits down. She analyses the witch now sitting in front of her. Instead of the usual robes identifying her as Azkaban personnel, this one wears a business like skirt and blouse as if she works in a muggle bank, and Hermione almost snorts at the notion. _

 

_ After the usual declaration of how they keep her in Azkaban for her own (and the society’s) safety, how important it is that she cooperates, that they only make things better with this and so on, the female interrogator gets to core of today’s inspection. _

 

_ “Your records say you are quite intelligent. So let’s play a round of ‘What If’, shall we? Strictly hypothetical, for now, of course.” The blonde’s tone sounds so faux-friendly she could teach Umbridge a thing or two. Hermione doesn’t nod because this isn’t about her consent. _

 

_ “What if we were able to persuade our friends at the Daily Prophet to publish an article about you? One that explains in great length how Hermione Granger has turned her back to the old times, finally abandoning her old associates who have no interest to bring the wizarding world into the future, and is so grateful to support the new age?”  _

 

_ Hermione grows hot and cold at the same time. “They would know it’s false!” she brings forth behind gritted teeth. _

 

_ A cruel smirk appears on the blonde’s face. “Would they? What if we include a nebulous remark of how helpful you already have been?”  _

 

_ Panic spreading in every cell of her body, Hermione firmly shakes her head. No. Not Harry. Not her friends. They wouldn’t fall for it. _

 

_Correctly assuming her train of thoughts, the male interrogator speaks for the first time, coming closer while he does. “We’re not interested in Potter; he always had his problems with authorities. We’re interested in you.” He emphasizes his point by stretching out one hand and running his thick thumb over her cheek down to her lips. She sits there, almost like petrified, when he continues,_ _“You’ve always been a stickler to the rules, haven’t you? Everyone knows that.”_

 

_ Never before has Hermione been so glad about her good girl image. Though far from the truth it is - it is the way public paints her. And that’s exactly why they want to sway her, she realises. Because Hermione Granger is dangerous as an opponent, known as she is for a stellar moral compass.  _

 

_ But as a companion, her face could make people believe the regime was a good idea. And maybe it would make the masses turn a blind eye on the changes that would tear the British magical population apart. Not at wandpoint, like Voldemort, but subtler and just as deadly.  _

 

_ She finds her voice again when the wizard steps away from her. “Exactly. So why bring Harry up at all?”  _

 

_ “Well, we thought you would be interested in sparing your friends a lot of stress. Especially since pretty Ginevra is so close to giving birth. And Molly is said to have a weak heart since she had to bury one of her sons. Wouldn’t that be tragic if something happened to them? Do you think the Weasleys could take another blow?”  _

 

_ And again, her panic flares. Christ, do they know where they hide?  _

 

_ ‘ _ No, impossible _ ,’ Hermione tries to calm herself. Harry has made himself the secret keeper of their exact location; all Hermione knows is they have settled somewhere in Ireland. _

 

_ She stares into the empty space, her thoughts not circling around her own person but around her family… Molly has been like a mother to her, and she had cried and pleaded that she come with them. Ginny...was Harry’s wife really pregnant? Could she really endanger what has always been Harry’s dream, though foolish it might be to pursue it in times like these? A family of his own?  _

 

_ Even Hermione Granger has her breaking point, and in this moment, she thinks she has reached it. ”What would you want, exactly, for me to leave them alone?” She hates how her voice wavers at her words. _

 

_ The female interrogator smiles at her in what she probably believes is a soothing manner. “For now, all we need is a bit of cooperation. A smile and a handshake with the Minister, a bit of parading around at some public functions, and an open agreement to the Marriage Law.”  _

 

_ “We’d even be so generous and let you choose your spouse yourself,” the wizard complements, gazing at her form in an openly lecherous way. “Or even leave you out of it because of a certain...genetic disposition…” Hermione doesn’t doubt he means her blood status. “Though, it would be a shame for the future generation. Such powerful magical blood lost. We want a powerful elite, after all, and you could be a perfect addition to it.” The interrogator tugs at one of her uncombed curls, just forceful enough to make it sting. A subtle reminder of their power. Hermione wants to vomit at this bastard’s proximity, but her thoughts are in chaos.  _

 

_ A pause. “Think about it, Prisoner 24...Hermione. We will come back to this in awhile.”  _

 

_ In the rational part of her brain, the one not wholly overcome by despair and worry for her friends, the brunette witch knows they’re trying to break her with prodding at her greatest weaknesses. However, this part quivers and fades, leaving behind a crumbling darkness. _

 

_ Could she live with the thoughts that her friends were in danger because she didn’t want them to believe she had betrayed her beliefs? _

 

_ Could she betray her beliefs, even though that inevitably meant she would endanger her friends?  _

 

* * *

 

At first, Draco doesn’t react to Hermione’s report, not even when she starts sobbing again. 

“Maybe I’ve been too stubborn. I mean, they believe in magic in everyone, right? That doesn’t sound so bad, does it? They don’t differentiate between purebloods and half-blood as strongly.” 

 

A loud clatter from the other cell tells her he has thrown something at the wall, probably the small metal bowl they receive their stale food delivered in. He starts pacing, and she can only hear him mumble expletives under his breath. Never before, not even when he was a hot-headed adolescent, has she experienced Draco so angry. 

 

“Granger, you have to stop this bullshit! Do you even listen to yourself? They’ve come too close to breaking you! Stop considering to agree to their demands! Do you understand me?”

 

Somehow, his ire burns itself through her emotions, deepening the guilt even more.

 

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” he yells, and Hermione jumps in shock.

 

“Y-Yes. I understand,” she admits, her voice breaking. It’s all too much. She has not only disappointed her friends, herself, her magic - now she has disappointed the only human being that has her back at the moment. “Sorry,” she apologizes, albeit so quiet she is not sure he can hear.

 

“Fuck, Hermione,” Draco’s voice is softer now, more sad than angry. “It’s not your damn fault. Don’t you dare to apologize for what those bastards do to you! Just...you don’t really believe Potter would think you betrayed him, right? You’re so strong; you can’t give up now. I won’t allow that.”

 

While the wizard speaks, she inches closer to the hole, wanting to be as close to him as possible. The tears in her eyes blur her vision, though his words have a soothing effect on her. Her breakdown shocks her deeply, making it more apparent than ever: the abyss in her is gaining strength, her soul circling around it, teetering on the edge, tumbling, threatening to fall and become the abyss itself. 

 

Suddenly, Hermione feels a hand on her shoulder. Draco must have broadened the hole enough so he could wriggle his elegant hand through it. She is shocked at his warm touch, but it makes her feel...human again, pulled back from the edge just barely, just for the moment. She sobs, this time in relief, and leans her wet cheek against his skin. 

 

The feeling of his hand makes him so much more _ real. _ The last doubts of him being a hallucination crumble, even though a small part of her brain still suspects a grand scheme against her, to break her, putting the wolf behind her when the abyss is in front of her.

 

But for now, he is her anchor in her personal sea of monsters.


	4. I am your worst nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like what you read? Or not? Either way, I'd be happy about a comment :)  
> A thankful shout-out to my beta, MrBenzedrine89. Read the 'Tango' update yet? No? You really should ;) Kyonomiko has released two juicy one-shots, 'Kitty Treat' and 'Unmasked' - so good. These writers are really outstanding!

It’s the second day of the bright cycle when they take away Draco for questioning. Hermione can’t stay still while he is away, and she knows what this means: she has grown accustomed to him, maybe even before she accepted him as real.    
  
Her instinct is to push these thoughts aside. The comfort another human -  _ he _ brings her… it could turn into hope. A hope that is destined to implode, if she takes all variables of her current situation into consideration. But strangely, the darkness taking hold of her finds solace in having company in what could easily be her final weeks or days. So is it a bad thing that she was glad she had  _ him  _ by her side? Is it a fault in her character that the only order in her mind was pushed into her by Draco Malfoy?

 

Her thoughts run in circles, tumbling through the depth of hell while wishing for heaven but always returning to the centre - Harry, Minerva, Ron, Ginny, Charlie, Arthur, the usuals, one could say, now enlarged to fit one blond wizard. Fate certainly owns a twisted sense of humour.

 

An hour or two later, she hears a commotion in the cell next to her. As soon as the doors falls closed, he starts screaming. Hermione doesn’t even need to press her ear to the hole or push the brick aside to hear him, but she does nevertheless.

 

“They’re coming! The Dark Lord! Potter lied, we’ve all been lied at! The battle was a farce!” The rattling noise that follows indicates he shakes the door, to no avail of course. The only result his reckless behaviour has is apparently a painful electro shock from the sound of it. Hermione jumps at his pained howl, feeling the ache as if it is her own. 

 

He mumbles something incoherently then, and it suddenly dawns to her that he has been drugged. Strangely, this makes her afraid. Afraid because he has been her constant since she grew aware of him, even when she didn't recognize herself anymore. Angry and irate though he has been, but he’s always himself. 

 

She gathers the courage to peek through the gap in the wall for the first time, even though her eye waters upon the exertion.

 

The man she sees has the same, significant platinum blond hair she remembers, the same length even. The soft bangs fall over his face, his ears, reaching the collar of his non-descriptive brown shirt. How they have stayed this way in this environment is a secret to her. She can’t see the silver eyes he has been so famous for among the females in Hogwarts, for his back is turned to her. His shoulders raise and lower in short succession. Is he crying? If so, he is quiet at it. 

 

“Malfoy? Are you alright?” An incoherent groan is her answer. “ _ Malfoy! _ ” she repeats with emphasis. 

 

“No. Be quiet,” he moans, pressing his palms to his ears.

 

“I won’t.” Her answer is defiant. He was there for her. And now she would be there for him.

“You will. None of this is real. It’s only in my head. Nothing is real…” And so his path through his hallucinations begin. 

 

Hermione doesn’t know what they fed him, but it has to be some heavy stuff, for his agonized screams accompany her through the night. Interrupted by phases of rest where she falls into a restless slumber against the wall, due to the brightness and Draco’s suffering, he rages and yells through the hours, goes through different episodes, screams for his parents - and sometimes  _ because _ of them. Even if this insane yelling only contains a spark of truth - the snobby boy and young man she remembers from Hogwarts has always been a facade for a highly sensible and vulnerable person. 

 

And all Hermione can do is whisper words of assurance he probably doesn’t even realize. The hardest part is when he relives that night at Malfoy Manor and her own name tumbles from his parched lips. Pressing her palm to her mouth, she suppresses sobs of empathy as it breaks what’s left of her heart. He wails, bangs his head to the floor because he can’t help her, and Hermione’s final resolve snaps.

 

“Stop it!” she cries, uncaring if someone hears. “Right this instant. It wasn’t your fault!”

 

Her good intentions seem to backfire when he jumps up and hammers his fists against the wall, close to where their connection lies. “SHUT UP! You’re not real! You’re an imposter! I’m sure you’re polyjuiced!” 

 

The tone of his voice unsettles her and demonstrates that Draco is as unhinged beneath the surface as she is. Taking a calming breath to steady herself, Hermione knows she has to take a different road with him. Maybe it was worth a try…? “Don’t bullshit me, Draco!” She uses the insult to let her bossy personality shine through his haze. And then, seemingly out of the blue, she asks, “What’s even necessary for brewing Polyjuice?” 

 

She almost can’t believe her own ears when he answers after three long breaths. “Lacewing flies, leeches, powdered bicorn horn...” he rattles the ingredients off effortlessly. 

 

“How does one brew it exactly?” Again, he scores the perfect response. She knows because she, too, has the exact words memorized.

 

“When was the summit of the International Confederation of Wizards that led to the formation of the Department of Magical Game and Sports in Britain?” 

 

“1692.”

 

“Which clause was added to the Statue of Secrecy in 1750 and what does it say?” 

 

She hears him starting to pace the room rhythmically, nervous energy transforming into answers to her questions.  “Clause 73. It says each Ministry is responsible for the concealment of magical creatures within its territory.” 

 

The quiz goes on, Hermione rapidly firing one question at Draco after the other. She switches topics randomly, the facts getting more and more fastidious and demanding more concentration. She listens while he responds and is aware of how his breathing slowly evens. It continues for what feels like an hours, until he hoarsely answers, “It’s the Second Principle of Herbal Transfiguration. And I’m back.” 

 

“Are you?” she asks back, not convinced. “Then I suppose you won’t object to some more sensible questions.” 

 

“You will pose them anyway.” A tint of sarcasm makes him sound more like himself already.

 

“Why aren’t they using Legilimency against us?” This question has appeared more than once since her imprisonment. Of course, she has some theories, but it would help to have a second opinion.

 

There’s a pause before he answers, and it’s the longest span of silence since he has entered his cell again. “We’re both hard to break, I suppose. And they’d have to change our attitude completely. But such a violent change leaves traces and marks and could still be apparent to a keen eye.”    
  


Hermione has pretty much the same point of view, so she goes on, “And you are an accomplished Occlumens, right?” 

 

“Yes, my mother trained me herself since I was a teenager. She always told me it’s because you have to keep a certain facade in the pureblood society, but I think she wanted me able to protect myself against Voldemort’s advances,” he explains solemnly, almost detached. 

 

In the excruciating bright light of her cell, Hermione hums in understanding. Narcissa Malfoy  _ had _ lied to Voldemort, after all. “Why not Veritaserum?” 

 

“Easy to overcome when you’re strong-willed, even if your Occlumency skills aren’t stellar. But you knew that already, Hermione!” At some point in the hours and days of their imprisonment, they had switched to their first names, and Hermione could already decipher a dozen ways he implemented his moods in the way he spoke her name. This time, it is reproachful. Apparently, he finally has gathered enough control over himself for him to sit down right next to the hole. 

 

“I only wanted to help,” she whispers, stretching her hand out and placing it on his shoulder.

“I know,” he sighs, and just like that, all the tension and pain and anger is lost, and a renewed feeling of hopelessness takes over the air between them.

 

“I wish I could do more. You know, something small. Like a conjuring a bluebell flame. Those were my speciality.” 

 

He chuckles, his hand covering hers, the pulse of his heart beating strongly against her skin. “A light in the darkness...that would be nice.” 

 

His touch grounds Hermione, and she closes her eyes, remembering how it had felt when she had accomplished to create those nifty little pieces of magic for the first time. It had been a challenge at first, but then, the picture was as clear as the day in her mind, and all she had to do was channel it through her wand… 

 

“By Salazar, Hermione!” Draco’s gasp made her memory dissolve. 

 

“What?” She wants to pull away, but his grip on her hand tightens, and she feels a jolt of something vaguely magical coursing through her at this feeling. “You swot! You just made a bluebell flame appear in my cell!” 


	5. Whatever it takes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the amazing feedback you give me - it makes me feel glorious, really.
> 
> Without my beta's neverending support and comfort, this story (or any of mine) wouldn't be possible. Thank you so much, MrBenzedrine89.

 

_ “By Salazar, Hermione!” Draco’s gasp makes her memory dissolve.  _

 

_ “What?” She wants to pull away, but his grip on her hand tightens, and she feels a jolt of something vaguely magical cursing through her at this feeling. “You swot! You just made a bluebell flame appear in my cell!”  _

 

“You’re hallucinating again,” she counters.

 

“Am not.”

 

“Obviously, you are. I thought about one, that’s for sure, but…”

 

“Then think of it again!” he demands, almost desperately..

 

“Don’t order me around like a house elf!”

 

He sighs audibly. “I apologize. Please, try it again?” The fact that Draco Malfoy has apologized and used the word ‘please’ leads her to the conclusion that either  _ she _ is the one with the hallucinations, or he really has seen a bluebell flame.

 

She tries her luck without bothering to reply. Folding her hands in front of her, she conjures the feeling of casting the spell again. The ‘click’ in the back of her mind when the hazy background sizzling of magic suddenly makes sense and shapes into something corporeal. The joy of mastering what most humans in the world think impossible.

 

Nothing.

 

She tries again.

 

Nothing. Again. 

 

After half a dozen rounds, she gives up, disappointed with herself without any substantial reason.

 

“I am too weak,” she concludes. “The time here has taken a toll not only on my psyche, but also on my magic.” Of course, she has tried in the beginning to free herself with wandless magic, even though she has been too agitated to achieve something, too unfocused. So, she has given up after some time. Hearing his mumbled agreement, she asks,“Why don’t you give it a try yourself?” 

 

“I know the basics, but wandless magic isn’t something I’m very proficient at,” he replies. 

 

“You mean you suck at it.” 

 

“Basically, yes. I’m good with mind magic, in turn, so there.” She grins upon hearing the defiant undertone. He really is her only distraction from her imprisonment. Then it dawns on her: she had been able to conjure the bluebell when she  _ touched him _ . 

 

It couldn’t hurt to try… Hermione sticks her hand through the opening in the wall again, gripping the first batch of warm skin she feels under her fingers.

  
“Ouch! That’s my ear!” Draco complains. 

 

Embarrassed, she mumbles, “Sorry. It’s just that...well, I touched you when the flame happened, and I thought-” 

 

“It’s okay,” he says briskly and guides her hand where she can feel his neck join his shoulder. He twitches as if he wants to remove it, but settles for leaving it there. Beneath her ring finger, she feels his pulse, strong and titillating. Hermione concentrates on this and guides her thoughts towards the magic in her core. With every beat of his heart, she pushes forward to it, feels it cowering in her innermost centre. Slowly, carefully,  _ delicately  _ she creates the image of a bluebell flame in her mind and nudges it towards where her magical power resides. Every witch and wizard is aware that their magic usually flows through them freely, prepared to be directed through a wand, orchestrated and instrumentalized in means to  _ Accio, _ to  _ Anapneo _ , to  _ Avada Kedavra _ . Due to her stay in Azkaban, hers is definitely damaged, scared, fragmented. It would probably heal in time, but for now, it doesn’t hold the power it usually has.

 

Gently, she steers the visualisation of the flame outside, taking some of the magic with it. Her fingertips sizzle, and she rubs them against Draco’s skin to ease the feeling. She notices goosebumps arising because of it, but she clings to the image of the flame, on making it shine.

 

“It works,” Draco speaks, in awe again. “It’s just a few inches away from my fingertips.” 

 

Hermione smiles to herself, almost proudly upon her achievement, even if it is on Draco’s side, and experimentally lifts her hand, breaking the contact between them effectively. Instantaneously, it becomes impossible to keep control of her magic, and, like a frightened animal, it draws back inside of her. 

 

“It’s gone.” Draco’s words hold a bit of disappointment. He, too, knows what their new observations mean. Somehow, this could provide them with a way out, but...

 

“We need to strengthen my magic. And, for whatever reason, you seem to help with it. But with the resources we have, the only way is-” 

 

“-Blood magic,” he finishes for her, having come to the same conclusion. “And since I don’t expect you to murder me for it and do unholy things with my body, only one option remains…” 

 

A cold realisation comes to Hermione when she looks down to her left ring finger under which she has just felt Draco’s heart beating. “A wedding bond,” she whispers. 

 

“20 points to Gryffindor for quick thinking,” he answers grimly.  

 

She laughs, but the sound holds no happiness, and she isn’t sure whether she reacts to the suggestion or his lame joke. “You know that by such a nifty piece of blood magic you’d practically overdo what the new regime exercises with their stupid laws? We would not only erect a connection, based on our powers to create even more magical power, but also establish a magical bond, made to protect magical unions between a man and a woman.” 

 

The witch knows she doesn’t have to explain how such bindings are supposed to create a certain physical openness towards the partner, even if it is a strictly platonic bond in the first place. He’d know that kind of tidbit as scion of the Sacred Twenty-Eight who practically embedded those customs into their life expectations. In the old times, marriages were arranged based on political power and not on attraction or love. But the magical bond encouraged intimacy, fondness, and protectiveness. And just like that, it assured the conceiving of an heir eventually. Without mentioning it, Hermione knows Draco is aware that they’d probably fall into bed sooner or later. 

 

“Our bond would kick their pathetic attempts into the arse, yes. I imagine my ancestors would be quite proud of me in that aspect. My father...not so much.” 

 

“Regardless of my blood status?” 

 

“Even though my father, and in extension, me aren’t the best examples of it, the Malfoy line, above all, strives for power. And this power was often found in the old magical families in the past, but not exclusively. And nobody can deny how powerful you are.” 

 

“But that’s a pretty serious bond, you know? Can you really imagine being magically connected with me for the rest of our lives? What about children? What about the ways to conceive them?” Strangely, she isn’t embarrassed to ask those rather intimate questions.

 

“If we don’t get out of here soon, we will have no lives, or at least not ones worth living. Honestly, I can imagine worse witches being bound to.”

For a moment, Hermione befalls a bit of giddiness, most probably as reaction to the circumstances. Discussing a life outside of Azkaban is so surreal. “I can imagine us living in a cute little cottage at the Irish coast. Close to Harry and Ron, but not too close, so we’d still have our privacy. Maybe I could open a bookshop. And you’ve been always good at potions, so maybe you could work as a potioneer.” 

 

“Pets? Children? I’d need a greenhouse, too.” 

 

The vision of Draco Malfoy peacefully gardening, with two curly haired, platinum blond children chasing a large cat through the gardens is so improbable that it makes the bubble collapse. Hermione sighs heavily and can’t help a sob escaping her and some heavy tears running down her cheeks. “It’s futile.” 

 

A hand reaches through the wall, caressing her cheek with a surprising amount of gentleness. “It isn’t. Maybe we should simply take one step after the other. First escaping from Azkaban, then discussing baby names.”

 

Hermione has the uncanny feeling her life will take an unexpected and absurd turn, even compared to her imprisonment.

 


	6. When I break the chains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *breathes deeply* okay, this is it. The final chapter. I don't know if you like it. I don't know if you hate it. All I can say is that this story is special for me. And I like to thank you for supporting me by reading, reviewing, and subscribing it.
> 
> Biggest thank you - as always - goes to MrBenzedrine89, my beta and friend. Cheese ;)!

For the following two days, Hermione only concentrates on the same thoughts: the bluebell flame, something that qualifies as marriage proposal of convenience, and a feeling that resembles hope if one squints really hard.

 

Though, both she and Draco keep on trying to come up with a solid alternative. 

 

Only there is none. 

 

Just when their discussion comes back to the start again, and they border on screaming at each other in frustration, they hear someone approaching their cells. 

 

A second later, the door of Hermione’s cell opens, and the pudgy ward from the last interrogation steps in. This has never happened before, and so she jumps to her feet when he walks towards her. Praying the brick covers the hole, she presses her back to the wall, eyes firmly on the Azkaban guard. His eyes openly gaze over her form, making her want to shove him away. Though, she helplessly has to tolerate that he rests one hand on the wall, his proximity too small to be decent. When he speaks to her, his breath ghosts hotly over her skin, not comparing to the warmth of Draco’s skin. 

 

“Tomorrow, Prisoner 24. Tomorrow we will get you and await your answer. Have you thought about it? Have you thought about finally doing the right thing?” 

 

Cold fury surges through her. “I have.”

 

He steps even closer, his nose almost touching her hair. “I sincerely hope I’m going to like it,  _ Hermione _ .”

 

Hermione has to bite her defiance down - a defiance she no longer thought she had. But now isn’t the time to ponder where it came from. “Why?” she brings forth. 

 

“Because I can’t wait to persuade you to being ‘matched’.” He’s trailing his finger down her brown shirt as he says that, stopping only when he has reached the curve of her breast. Then, he seems to decide he has left enough of an impression. Leaving Hermione trembling, he turns around and closes the door with a final, sounding slam. 

 

The second the ward is out of sight, her knees give way and she crumbles. Knowing Draco probably listened to every word, she whispers into the empty space, “I can’t…” She swallows and tries again. “I made my decision.” A pause follows, and she thinks she can hear him hesitating. 

 

“Are you sure?” 

 

“Draco...even if I pledge my allegiance to their ideals, it won’t change anything. And who knows which bastards are coming for me, one way or another.” Her tone leaves room for interpretation, but she’s certain he has the same terrifying ideas playing in his head. 

 

“Better the devil you know?” Draco says, entirely without bitterness. 

 

“It’s not-” she begins.

 

“I know. I was just trying to lighten the atmosphere.” 

 

“You’re doing an awful job.” 

 

“If this works, you have a lifetime to teach me.” The severity of their decision hits her hard then. But it also contains a flicker of positivity. “We don’t have much time.” 

 

“No, not when they’re coming after me tomorrow.” Then, she gasps, realising something. “I need to  _ practise _ ,” Hermione splutters. Draco answers with a giggle. An actual  _ giggle _ . For a moment she ponders the insanity behind that and their entire fucked up situation. Then she starts giggling along, giving in to the madness. And not practising.

* * *

The nights in Azkaban have never brought relaxation, and twisting and turning doesn’t exactly help either, so the next morning has Hermione exhausted, but on edge.

 

Draco doesn’t seem to hold himself much better, for he explains what feels like the tenth time, “Don’t forget: the bond won’t give you extraordinary strength. It will only solidify and enrich the talents you already have. In your case: the wandless magic.”

 

“Yes, I know. But it’s the only chance we have,” she repeats, sensing the anxiety behind his words. 

 

She decides they have talked enough, so she reaches through the wall. Holding Draco’s hand in hers, she listens to his heartbeat for a minute, letting it ground her. Then, without pondering any longer, she pulls at her magic, easily cutting the skin over his wrist open. 

 

“Crosswise, not lengthwise, darling,” he comments drily. 

 

“Brightest Witch of Our Age, have you forgotten?” 

 

A lengthwise cut, a bit too deep, could potentially have them bleeding out - not exactly purposeful. 

 

Draco proves again how much he uses sarcasm as a way to cope as he drawls, “No. That’s why I know it would be in the realm of possible if you ‘accidentally’ killed me only to avoid signing documents with ‘Hermione Malfoy’ in the future.” 

 

She stops before she continues cutting herself, realising that, for once, Draco is ahead of her in some things. “Are you sure...what we’re about to do is legally binding?” 

 

“Now you’re insulting my intelligence. I’ve been researching for holes in the marriage law for some time - it’s waterproof. But they didn’t put the ancient laws out of order - hardly anyone uses them these days.” 

 

She hums in understanding. She’d indeed be married and stay it if they could break themselves out. Not a thing she has considered for the next years. 

 

Though, does she have a choice now? Not really. It would be small price to pay to get bonded to a man if that preserved her freedom. Even if this ironically meant the escape from the marriage law in the end. 

 

But her protest against it has never been about her personally; it has been about the regime taking away everyone’s free choice. Hermione, on the other side, now chooses to cultivate her freedom by force. Literally. 

 

Clearing her thoughts willingly as far as it is possible with a shake of her head, she says, “So it’s been your nefarious plan all the time. Waiting for the right occasion to strike for a helpless prey.”  There’s an ounce of sincerity in her dark humour. 

 

“Hermione, you just have to say stop and we-” 

 

“It’s apparently too early to make Slytherin jokes. Though, you should prepare to hear them a lot.” 

 

He makes a noise that suspiciously sounds like a lion’s roar. Despite their attempts at levity, the severity of the situation weighs it down again. 

 

“You have to lead me through it, Draco…” she reminds him.

 

“Right.” He inhales and presses his wound on hers, his fingers anchoring his grip on her forearm. She mirrors his actions, not even appalled at the feeling of wetness now spreading over her skin generously. “Repeat after me:  _ You are blood of my blood, and bone of my bone. I give you my body that we two might be one. I give you my magic that I shall receive yours. I give you my spirit until our life shall be done. You are blood from my blood, and blood of my bone. _ ” 

 

She listens to his suddenly calm words ardently, trying to memorize them. Vaguely, she remembers to have read them somewhere, but her mind and magic are focused on repeating after Draco. And she does, without stumbling; when she finishes, they wait.

 

Knowing the Sacred Twenty-Eighths’ penance for pompous self-presentation, Hermione expects something spectacular to happen. A bright, blinding white light. Wind blowing. That kind of magical display. Instead, she feels a gentle hum spreading from the place where they are connected, a change settling into her being. Soft. Careful. And yet with a promise of power. When  _ something Draco  _ pushes against her magic, she gives a quiet gasp of surprise.

 

And - for for the lack of a better description - she  _ lets go _ , opens the connection.

 

But somehow, it feels right, feeling his magic running through her veins along her own - warm, strangely familiar, soothing and provoking at the same time. She has heard the call of power from Slytherin’s locket so long ago, but this feels different, yet more dangerous somehow. 

 

With the horcrux, her darkest fears had been laid bare and nurtured. The ethereal presence had always been there, manipulating. With the bond now, she is alone in her own head, but instinctively she knows Draco’s presence would always _ there _ , but not pressuring. She has the feeling she could reach out for him any moment. And she would have to do that, undoubtedly. 

 

Where the locket had been the darkest moment of the night, this is waking up to the first rays of sunshine. 

 

“Thank you,” she whispers, not knowing exactly what for.

 

“You’re very much welcome,” he says, slightly out of breath.

 

The time to listen to her inner goings is short, and Hermione is alerted of her reality when the door screeches open again and the male ward steps in. She scrambles up, dizziness distracting her for a second. 

 

“Eager, are we?” the wizard asks, not even wand in hand.

 

A fool, underestimating this witch. 

 

“Are you ready to do the _right_ _thing_ , Prisoner?” 

 

“Am I ever.” She smirks at the man, and something in her face must unsettle him, for his gaze wanders over her, inspecting. When he sees the blood on her arm, his hand reaches for his wand. Though, unbeknownst to the guard, she tugs at Draco’s magic carefully, centers it along with her own surprisingly easily, and-

 

_ “Stupefy!” _ Hermione yells, and her heart leaps in joy when the wizard indeed widens his eyes in shock - and collapses on the ground. Not hesitating a split second, the witch runs out, stepping over the man in disgust without even taking his wand, and opens Draco’s door with a forceful, “ _ Alohomora _ !”

 

Asked later, neither she nor Draco would exactly remember how they managed their next steps. There are focus points, though she isn’t certain if her brain fills in some gaps to make sense from that insanity.

 

One thing Hermione will remember clearly is how Draco stares at her when she opens his door, his emotions somewhere between awe and surprise. For a moment, she assesses his appearance: he’s tall, taller than she remembered, and a dark blond shadow on his chin and cheeks tell her he hasn’t shaved for days. He takes her hand in the next moment, and the familiar connection gives them both strength as they start to run. They planned this part roughly, knowing they would have to tear a hole into an outer wall in order to Apparate.

 

At some point, they encounter two guards. Hermione feels Draco tugging at her magic for the first time, and she gladly shares her energy. She doesn’t know and doesn’t ask if he uses  _ Confundus _ or  _ Imperius _ , but in the end, he gets one of the men to petrify the other and knocks out the remaining one with a blow of his fist.

 

She takes away the wands from the men and hands Draco one. “It feels unaccustomed, but it will have to do.” He nods gravely. The sound when they blast a hole into one of the outer walls together should alert the guards in the entire building, but it opens them an opportunity to Apparate away. They throw the stolen wands into the water, aware that they are probably traced. 

 

They step into the wind, tears immediately obscuring their sight. But Hermione still sees eyebrows raise in question when he holds his arm out to her. 

 

“Where are we going?” 

 

“Ireland,” she says firmly and without a pause. He nods and doesn’t ask why because he knows. They would need a safe place to go to, and searching for Harry and the Weasleys would be a good start. Pulling her close, she feels him reaching for her magic in what she believes is for assurance. Hermione, burying her head in the crook of his shoulder and relishing in the sudden closeness, grants him access to her core. Surprisingly, she trusts him. Shortly after, they’re rushed through the sensation of Apparition.

 

When she opens her eyes again, she’s surrounded by wind and brightness and the scent of freedom. 

 

“Where are we?” She squints, her eyes adjusting to the sudden light.

 

“My mother used to have a hideout at the Irish coast not even my father knew about. She went here after the First War, but said it was too windy here. I thought it would be a good place to start. Especially since the wards are keyed to Black blood, and she always hid some money there.” 

 

“Good thinking!” she praises and means it. She hasn’t even paid a second thought as how to deal with their future, fully believing she had none.

 

“You are aware we’re married now? How does it feel to be Missus Draco Malfoy?” He raises his eyebrows suggestively as he speaks, but there’s a certain shyness in them that makes her smile. 

 

“Like Hell so far,” she teases and adds, “Though, fate robbed me of something I’m going to claim now.” In a move that surprises them both equally and she blames on the bond, she leans towards him and presses her lips to his in an innocent kiss. Their lips are rough, and she shivers in the wind of the Irish coast after spending so much time inside prison. But he smiles into the kiss and reprocriates, his lips roaming freely against hers. That kiss would be ingrained in her mind for the rest of her life. Not because it is passionate or arousing, but because it shifts something in her. And, despite the bond encouraging it, it happens from free will, from the longing to express their freedom.

 

Breaking their lip contact, Draco pulls her into a tight hug Hermione recognizes as one of pure relief, of assurance to himself and her that their escape was no dream. 

 

She knows their fight isn’t over yet, and they will have many obstacles to overcome. They aren’t  _ safe  _ by far, but she is no longer alone. She has Draco now. And he has her.

 

“We’ve shared Hell. Maybe there’s hope so we can share Heaven one day, too,” he says quietly. And Hermione believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the handfasting vow is shamelessly copied (and a bit altered) from Outlander. I don't own that either nor do I make money from this. But I've been a fan of the books for years.


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